from carolee schneemann correspondence

"...Somehow we should not have to become what we are not - more good, more bad - it all depends on what we really need to be. Two levels of needs though; primary - what we admit we want and secondary - something we may not admit which works against the primary. I have had these straightened out for me very brutally and it is as your letter states, a realization between art and life. When my life was most a nightmare (Wayne's leaving) the art - like a monster - gained a devouring strength for itself, developing in spite of my misery and carrying me along, a crazed puppet: misery "it" did seem to use as would a crippled magician sending a servant into horrors which the magician could then vicariously comprehend, and worse, transform into glorious spectacles. The servant is forever trapped in the wonder role the magician creates. The servant - or life capacity -  is tragically replaceable no matter how all art-magician discoveries seem to depend on her ...no, but the art cannot be replaced or if it dies the servant in us is mutilated and tries always for a double entendre role: to make life an art: to make life like art, endlessly adapting the wilds art-magician tricks to temporal utility...(they will appear in the soup, in an orderly closet). ...All extremes seem to be very nourishing for me..."

Typography Book Project

Food Revolution by Karen L Powell | Make Your Own Book

happy birthday william blake

one of course

dawn

mourning

9 is divine....noah s bday party

Juliana Romano , Dark Before the Bright Exit, 2010

comp1

Safety

somewhere
i watched it all.
i can see it now
a little.


i saw it come in 
shape of
a phase
a change
another universe,
i said.


but, no. no 
it was not 
that.


it was
the cocoon.
those woods
where the tree branches 
fold over the path.
in bed
under covers
during the storm.
the knowing of you
and me
still there.
in my mind.

to wile the out o body phase away...

this is calming my mind

the kitchen chimney - robert frost (1923)

Builder, in building the little house,

In every way you may please yourself;

But please please me in the kitchen chimney:

Don’t build me a chimney upon a shelf.

However far you must go for bricks,

Whatever they cost a-piece or a pound,

Buy me enough for a full-length chimney,

And build the chimney clear from the ground.

It’s not that I’m greatly afraid of fire,

But I never heard of a house that throve

(And I know of one that didn’t thrive)

Where the chimney started above the stove.

And I dread the ominous stain of tar

That there always is on the papered walls,

And the smell of fire drowned in rain

That there always is when the chimney’s false.

A shelf’s for a clock or vase or picture,

But I don’t see why it should have to bear

A chimney that only would serve to remind me

Of castles I used to build in air.

part of 'song', john donne

...Let not thy divining heart
    Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part,
    And may thy fears fulfill;
        But think that we
Are but turned aside to sleep;
They who one another keep
    Alive, ne'er parted be.

agAin : )

i+t !s a'g'g$r~a~V-a+T=i,,N"g

Their faces
plaster
castings.
Eyes wide
wonder...


as if-
-I'm... 
   i don t know what...
a token that just
glinted in the 
sun---- 
on the sidewalk 
as they stepped past.


a stone.


Only. hello.
 I breathe -- and smile
--the only oNE 
who
doesn't know 
What
 was just whispered
Before they looked


. 

Done.
Inverted plans
Spit out
With the coffee.

caKe

I have the dead cactus.
    
       the spindly one 
that no one knew was really a cactus.
They were right, though, it wasn t a cactus at all.


I have the dead cactus in
the pot
on the small side table.


When it died I thought
               
                "good Riddance"


and threw it out, pot and all, into the yard. 
There remained a sprig or two alive.


I thought it may be right to re-pot
those live branches, and I did.
Then I let them die.


I have the dead cactus.


       the spindly one
that no one knew was really a cactus.
They were right, though, it wasn t a cactus at all.


I have the dead cactus, in
the pot,
on the small side table.
In the living room, 
next to the stove,
as if in remembrance of
whatever the fuck
that was

Bacchus, Villa dei Misteri, Pompeii

France Pavilion, Venice Biennale.  Christian Boltanski, Chance.

German Pavilion, Venice Biennale

Canada Pavilion, Venice Biennale

ticK ClocK

let s do iT ..

oNe o CloCk, oF coUrsE...

Christian Marclay's The Clock Winner of Golden Lion Prize at 2011 Venice Biennale

my fave pic from biennale so far..and yellow my favorite color..this is a perfect place

james turrell ~~ light ~~

"Once inside,

you feel suspended in pure color, which keeps changing, as if the light itself is holding


you up and you’re floating through a rainbow. With nothing to focus on, it gets hard to


tell if you’re seeing a color or imagining it. When you close your eyes, the afterimages


are so intense that your eyes still seem to be open. Suddenly bursts of flashing strobe


lights generate astonishing geometric patterns. Then serenity returns as you are enveloped


once more in luminous fields of pure color, pulsing slowly brighter and darker until you


feel the light like a massage, pressing down and releasing you into Turrell’s strange


cosmos. The voice of the attendant seems otherworldly when you hear him, as though in


a dream, saying, “We’re going to pull you out now.”

biennale red

biennale blue

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